


Sound of Music

by slutforcavill



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, Reader is mute and does not talk, Reader plays the piano, Sherlock Holmes Henry Cavill, Soft Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slutforcavill/pseuds/slutforcavill
Summary: Sherlock finds himself being curious about the occupant of the estate next to theirs, especially when all they can hear during evenings is the faint sound of the piano coming from the estate. One day, the detective inside of him decides to try and find out what's going on with the neighbours.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader, Sherlock Holmes / Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

It was that time of the year again, at Ferndell Hall, where you could practically smell the blooming of the most exotic flowers that you couldn't put a name to; there were lilacs and chrysanthemums, gladulas and orchids that lined up until the iron metal gate of the structure. The grass was uneven and unkempt, weeds propped up almost everywhere, but that didn't bother Enola. However, as the carriage entered Ferndell Hall, carrying her two elder brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, there was someone that was bothered by all this — Mycroft. He looked at everything in distaste, grumbling in a not-so-silent manner as to what a mess the entire place was.

The day the brothers returned, all Enola listened to was Mycroft complaining about nearly everything, ranging from the ornaments in the estate that had been broken and left unattended, to the fact that Enola didn't have a set of gloves and a hat on while she was out at the station to receive them.

" _How improper!_ " He muttered to himself, and to Sherlock and the younger brother of the two couldn't help but pass on a cornered smirk to the youngest, silently addressing her with his eyes, asking her to just wait until this fit of their brother passed away and he got just another reason to begin cribbing about.

Back at the house, Sherlock only gave her a half amused smile, as he sunk back into one of the armchairs with a parchment of paper in his hands, a letter that belonged to their mother, in desperate attempts to find clues as to who could have taken her, or whether she left herself with a lover. Although, he didn't let Enola in on his second lingering thought.

It was almost evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Mrs. Hudson had laid out the tea cups, and was pouring the gentlemen some piping hot tea when Sherlock suddenly turned towards the window in the dining room.

"You hear that too, don't you Sherlock?" Enola regarded her brother, who had now stepped up and was already standing by the window, his tall frame covering up her entire view, " _that music.._ it's captivating, isn't it? I listen to it everyday." Enola stood up rather loudly, and Mycroft chastised her for it, but paying him no heed, she followed Sherlock to fix herself by his side, staring out of the window. Just next to the Ferndell Hall estate was spread out the Cableton Estate, and just last summer's, when Enola and her mother were out in the gardens trimming the shrubberies, they had heard heavy noises radiating from the abandoned estate next door.

"Looks like we've got neighbours," Enola's mother told her, and in her mind, she made a note to go and visit the neighbours but for some reason, it never came up, and now she was gone.

"Who are the occupants of the, what was the name again-- Cableton Estate?" Sherlock turned towards his sister, bringing his pipe up to his well defined lips, who just shook her head, "Never really got the chance to greet them properly."

The screws in Sherlock's minds were turning. Maybe, whoever lived in that house knew something that Enola didn't know, or had seen something that could give him a major clue as to where Eudoria Holmes actually was.

Maybe it was time to pay the neighbours a visit.

* * *

The sound of the music was much louder now, loud yet comforting to Sherlock's ears. The Cableton estate was not as big as the Ferndell Hall, but it was definitely lovely. The front lawn was well kept, the hedgerows trimmed timely, and the weeds pulled out. Massive flowers bloomed in a line, and the air smelled fresh and breathy.

Sherlock's curiousity was getting the better of him, and Enola was just being Enola, looking around, holding a massive silver plate with freshly baked goodies layered neatly inside of it as Sherlock rasped against the door.

They were greeted by an older looking woman with a kindred smile. She eyed Sherlock carefully, before turning to look at Enola, and then the baked goods in her hands, "Yes? Can I help you?" She asked, politely.

Sherlock parted his lips, but before he could speak, Enola began, "My name is Enola Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock," she turned towards him just for a second and regarded him through her blues before turning back again, tightly gripping the plate of goodies to her chest, "We come from Ferndell Hall. My apologies, we wanted to make a visit last summer, but circumstances weren't as such."

"Oh dear, the children would be happy to see you, come on in," the older woman stepped out of the way, and Sherlock nodded politely, waiting for her sister to be the one to enter first as it only seemed appropriate. He wondered who these children were. As if on cue, a young boy, not older than eight perhaps, darted into the hall, almost colliding into Sherlock's legs, eliciting an immediate response from the governess, "Good God, dear child, would you stop running about all over? You've got visitors? Would you let your sister know you've got visitors?"

"Well, hello there, and what might _your_ name be?" Enola knelt down, so she was squatting on her feet, to get to the same height as the boy, "I'm Enola."

"James, James [Y/L/N]," the boy nervously replied before he turned on his tail and ran off, and Enola couldn't help hide the grin forming on her lips as she watched him disappear.

"Tea?" The older woman asked, and Sherlock nodded, running his fingers through his curls, "If that won't be much trouble?" The woman waved him off with a smile and told them she would be right back, bring the tea whilst they waited.

"And what might you be thinking, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock realized he was lost in his thoughts. He wiped his palm over his face, over his well defined jaw and looked at his sister with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "A governess, a child, but no parents."

"Don't forget the mysterious pianist, Sherlock. Besides, the governess did mention the child's sister," Enola added.

While Enola had been busy interacting with the boy, Sherlock's eyes were scanning around the hall, studying the paintings that hung on the wall. They were mostly abstract but there was something captivating about them all. Sherlock clutched Eudoria's photograph tightly in his grip, waiting for the right moment so he could ask if the neighbours had seen something odd, and could tell him something when once again, the music filled up his ears.

He didn't understand it one bit, how clouded his senses became the more he listened to it. There was something raw, something painful lurking in that music, and although Sherlock couldn't put a name to it, he could sense the anguish of the person who was behind it. It became so unbearable to him, he began walking towards the source of the music, and Enola darted after him, frowning at how strange Sherlock was suddenly acting.

He didn't have to walk much farther, for the room aligned to the hall was the source of Sherlock's torment.

She didn't look much older, perhaps a twenty two if Sherlock's deducing skills were on point. Her dark tresses were short, strange for a woman living in London in that era. She was hunched over the piano, her fingers moving like butter over the keys and Sherlock, and even Enola, couldn't help but keep staring at her. Her side was towards them, so she didn't know she was being stared at. Besides, she was too engrossed in churning out the most melancholic melody to even notice that there were visitors in the house.

Her long lashes fluttered, her head gracefully thrown back, her fingers moving over the instrument without even her having to struggle to remember the notes. It had been as if she had been playing the piano ever since she was born, but she knew that wasn't the case. Slowly, the music that she was playing began dying down, and Enola, enraptured to say the most, unknowingly took a lousy step backwards, her back hitting the cabinet, toppling a vase over and Sherlock's breathing hitched.

The woman stood up, her eyes thrown wide open as she regarded them, obviously flustered and red like a freshly harvested tomato.

" _Apologies_ for the intrusion, and for my sister's not so graceful ways," Sherlock turned towards Enola, giving her a stern eye and she just shrugged before turning to the woman, "I must agree with my brother. Um, you see, we wanted to visit last summer but the circumstances were such.. oh nevermind, we brought you biscuits?" She bit her lip, giving the woman a child like apologetic smile, and Sherlock shook his head silently.

His mouth opened to apologize yet again but before he could even do that, the mysterious piano woman turned around, towards the other door of the parlour. She pulled it open and disappeared through it.

"I scared her off, didn't I?" Enola drawled, staring at the vacant space in front of the piano where she sat, seconds back.

"I am most certain of that," Sherlock hummed.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't felt this level of unease in a long while as he sat there, his knee bouncing up and down, his eyes fixed to that one spot of dirt on the carpet, his lips puckered into deep thinking. He knew their behaviour had been way off, and was disrespectful, yet he couldn't wonder but think what had made her run away.

Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway just adjacent to the hall, until the figure of the governess emerged, a tray held in her hands. She laid the tea cups down and filled up the cups with piping hot tea. Following the governess, [Y/N] finally entered the hall, her arms in front of her, her fingers nervously toying with each other.

She lowered her head, just lightly before she glanced at her governess and gave her a slight look, a look that Sherlock quite didn't understand. Perplexed, he turned towards his sister for help. For a mighty detective, Sherlock Holmes was as clueless as a lamb when it came to women, and their thoughts and their actions, and she was a complete stranger. The nearest that the detective could bring himself to deduce was the fact that she had been offended by the intrusion.

It was only when the governess cleared her throat, the only sound in the parlour being that of the clinking of the silver sterling spoon against the ceramic tea cup as the [Y/N] began stirring the tea in her teacup, did Sherlock and Enola look up from their own respective teas.

"Miss [Y/L/N] appreciates the gesture, and might I add, she thinks that the biscuits were just perfectly done," the governess turned towards her and the woman gave her a half smile, half blush as she brought the cup up to her rosy lips and took a sip of it. Enola turned to her brother, and then back to her, and blinked, " _thank you_. The next time, I could try chocolate chip."

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned towards Enola, making her go quiet, as his fingers slid into the pocket of his pants and he pulled out Eudoria's photograph. He slightly leaned forward, his elbow resting against his knee as he threw out the photograph towards the two of them so they could take a look, "we did come with another purpose. We are trying to look for our mother Eudoria. She is missing." He threw out his hand towards [Y/N], and this time, she took the photograph from his hand and looked down at it, handing it to her governess as she gave him a confused look.

"Did you happen to see anything that you perhaps thought was remotely strange or unusual?"

  
Sherlock was quick to grasp the shock registering on the woman's face, making it known that she had no idea whatsoever and he sighed, slinking back against the comfort of the armchair, his hand resting on his knee. That's when he noted something, the woman lifted her hands in the air, keeping them parallel to her bosom, as she began motioning something to her governess in sign language. It was only then he realized why she hadn't spoken a word to him. It wasn't because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

" _Unfortunately_ , Mr. Holmes, Miss [Y/L/N] does not have anything of importance that can help the two of you with your search. She hardly leaves the confines of Cableton Estate."

Sherlock nodded, his lips curling into the slightest of smiles as he took the photograph back, pocketing it, "Thank you for trying, Miss [Y/L/N].

[Y/N] nodded, and Sherlock noted the way her lips curved upwards, just slightly, her cheeks slightly rosy.

It was then that the governess informed her discreetly that it was time for her music lessons. Gently, she stood up, and nodded in curtsy, her head dipping just lightly as she took her leave and excused herself, slithering out if the hall from one of the mahogany doors, until she was out of sight, and the governess turned towards Sherlock, "You have questions, I suppose?"

"We don't wish to intrude," Sherlock's deep baritone went.

The governess sighed softly, flicking a glance towards the way [Y/N] had left from and she took a deep breath, "I was _twenty_ when the [Y/L/N]s took me in as a governess for their lovely children, [Y/N] and James."

Sherlock regarded the older woman through his oceanic blue eyes, his fingers placed against his chin, as though he was deeply listening, which he was.

"Four summers back, it was a lovely afternoon, and the [Y/L/N]s were on their way to city, when they were brutally murdered. It's a miracle Miss [Y/N] survived."

Sherlock tensed, his earlier relaxed posture changing as he sat upright and glanced at Enola, before looking back at the governess again.

"Pardon me, but wasn't Miss [Y/N] an eye witness? _Were the murderers not caught_?"

"Unfortunately, she never spoke again. We did try our best to get her to speak, or even write but she decided against it," The governess arched herself forward, so now her voice was reduced to a mere whisper, "the police never found out who killed them, and the mystery still remains."

"The police can be.. er, incompetent but I can help if you would like?" Sherlock offered.

The governess shook her head, smiling softly, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I would convey that to Miss [Y/L/N] but I doubt she wants anyone to engage in this again. The last experience was not so.. pleasant for her."

Sherlock turned towards his sister, a weird set of expressions passing between the two of them, as Sherlock stood up, nodding courteously, followed by Enola who finally broke her own silence with a smile, "Thank you for having us, and apologies for er, our untimely visit."

The governess walked the two of them out until they were on their way to the Ferndell Hall once again, and Enola noted how quiet Sherlock was, all the way. As they reached the front gate, and stepped into the vicinity of their front garden, Enola turned towards his brother, her eyebrow raised slightly in jest, "You seemed fascinated by Miss [Y/L/N], Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth opened, and he narrowed his eyes for a bit, trying to come up with the right words, but it was as if words had failed to make a presence into his mouth and his mind. He was already thinking, his thoughts revolving around a singular thought. Who murdered her parents? "I'm _not_ fascinated by her but rather the story that stays hidden from the rest of the world, Enola."

"And what exactly do you intend to do about it, Sherlock?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, sister, once I find where our mother is, I'm going to offer to look into the murder of her parents."

Enola smiled, a naughty one but she dared not comment. She knew what was happening, but she wanted destiny to play out its course. Enola had a hunch, and her hunches were never mostly wrong, except perhaps for one or two. But she was confident that Sherlock was somehow captivated by the stranger that lived in the estate next to theirs, and that the whole idea of trying to find out who murdered her parents were just an illusion Sherlock's mind had formed, just to get himself another chance to be able to see her again. She didn't need to let him know that though, and she decided that it would be the best to leave things run their own course.

* * *

Over the course of the next four weeks, Enola and [Y/N] grew close. Enola found herself sneaking out often, mostly escaping from her older brother, Mycroft, to shelter with the [Y/L/N]s. Although [Y/N] never spoke, Enola began seeking solace in her music. She would sit in an armchair, right next to the piano, her elbows resting against its surface as she watched the woman play. It was a sight for her sore eyes, watching the woman crinkle her nose just lightly when her hands were so engrossed in playing the piano but a loose strand of her dark locks managed to escape from behind her ear pricking against her nose. She would let out a giggle as she watched [Y/N] scrunch her nose almost immediately, and she would have to forcefully pause with the piano, and her palm would fly up to her lips, and she would sneeze lightly.

[Y/N] found herself spending more and more time in the company of Enola. She found herself on untimely walks with the younger girl, her arm in hers, as the two of them walked in the front garden of the Ferndell Hall. Although she never spoke, there was now like a deep rooted understanding between the two of them that wasn't formed on words, but rather unsaid emotions. If it were up to [Y/N], she considered Enola a sister she never had.

This led her to have another starkly contradicting thought in her mind. If she considered Enola like her younger sister, did that mean she had to think of Sherlock as her brother figure?

That afternoon, she sat under the tree, her back resting against the bark of the tree, her hair fuzzy and all over her eyes, as she used her dainty fingers to push them away from her eyes. She was listening to Enola rant on about Mycroft, as she paced left and right, her hands on her hips. She was extremely done for, eversince Mycroft had told her about his intentions to see her in a finishing school run by Mrs. Harrison, " _Breeding a proper lady_ , he says. Can you believe that, [Y/N]?"

That afternoon she told [Y/N] about her plans to disguise herself as a boy and leave Ferndell Hall. At first, [Y/N] protested in her own silent way, grabbing her hands and tugging them down, shaking her head but when she saw how important this was for her, and when she heard how commited she was to this idea of going away, she couldn't say no or do anything about it but to accept what she wanted to do. Thus, she wished Enola good luck, kissing her forehead, and let her leave.

After Enola left, [Y/N] found it terribly hard to concentrate on the trivial things in life. She hated spending time around her piano, she hated reading, and she hated anything that was remotely not worrying about the girl. It was only that one day, when a letter finally arrived for her, from Enola, did the nervousness that had long settled intothe pit of her stomach, start washing away.

Taking the letter from her governess, she ran outside, clutching the letter to her chest, pressing it hard against it as she ran up the hill, using her hand to hold her skirt up, while the other held the letter.

Once she was sat comfortably under her tree, she rolled the letter open, and a breath of relief escaped her lips. Although Enola had not told much, the letter said that she was safe, and she was closer in her search for Eudoria. That was good enough for her to get her tension and the knots in her body and her mind to melt away to an extent. And the rest was done by Sherlock.

[Y/N] didn't realize how her running up that hill had invaded the detective's privacy. He had already been up on that hill, shielded from prying eyes as he sat under another tree, smoking his pipe. When she ran up the hill, the faint rustling and the crunching of the dried autumn leaves made his attention spike, and he lifted his blue eyes, fixing it on her.

She was _beautiful_ , sublime, her face the colour of summer, of flowers blooming in a backyard.

Sherlock stood up silently, in a way not to scare her off. He could see her read a letter, her expressions dramatically changing, from a straight face to a smile. It had to be Enola.

"Fancy meeting you here, Miss [Y/L/N]."

[Y/N] had the clearest of faces that Sherlock could think of. She was as transparent as water, and Sherlock could read her expressions like a book. This was maybe her way of communicating, through her lips and her eyes and Sherlock felt he was mastering the art of it. She bit her lip nervously, her fingers tightening around the now crumpled parchment of paper.

"I hope I'm not intruding."

He noticed how she shook her head, her nose crinkling slightly, a bit of panic in her eyes as she quickly hid the letter away, shielding it within the heavy layers of her dress. He didn't comment on it. The truth was, he had been keeping track on Enola himself so he knew he knew much more than she did.

It's only when she shook her head and looked up at him, her doe like eyes meeting his for the first time, did he realize how his heart skipped a beat. The last time he had seen her, back at her estate, she had been withdrawn, but this woman was far from withdrawn. In fact, she looked happy to see him.

The look in her eyes was enough to tell Sherlock that she was okay with him sitting down next to her, so he did, careful to keep a good distance away from her, but they were parallel, their faces drawn to the vicinity in front of them. He wondered what was running through that beautiful mind of hers but if only she could tell him.

Sherlock and [Y/N] silently sat for the next few minutes, the silence being comfortable enough for the two of them to absorb each other's breaths. It was only when [Y/N] stood up, and nodded at Sherlock, did he realize that it was getting late. Out of courtesy, the man stood up too, his eyes falling on the letter that had, unknowingly fallen from her, and was now laying abandoned on the grass.

He bent, lifting it up and slowly, without even reading it, handed it back to her.

"Miss [Y/L/N]. Can I walk you back?"

A nod of her head and a smile on his lips, Sherlock found himself walking with her in silence, with his own smile reaching his eyes, the letter clasped to her chest.


	2. Chapter 2

[Y/N] chuckled at the thought of her governess having a heart attack when Enola's letter had arrived two moons back, asking her to come and live with her in London City for a while. The change would be good for you Miss [Y/L/N], the young girl had said in her letter. A lot of time had passed since then , perhaps months and Enola had finally met her mother again, before she left once more but now Enola wasn't a stranger to her mother's actions anymore. Another good thing to come out if it all, was the fact that Sherlock was now Enola's new guardian and Enola didn't have to worry about Mycroft again. Now she stared out of her carriage, looking at the silhouettes of the houses that passed her by, and a realization hit her. This was the first time she had stepped into the city of London, ever since the murder of her parents.

Back at Enola's lodgings, Enola shuffled about in her kitchen as she put the kettle of the tea on the stove for a boil. She turned towards Sherlock, who was seated rigidly on the dining table, hunched over a few newspapers from four years back as he was reading about the murder of the [Y/L/N]s.

"Find something of _importance_ , brother?" She cocked her eyebrow upwards in curiousity, eyeing her brother with utmost determination lurking in her eyes. Sherlock looked up at her briefly and curled his lips inwardly, as though still thinking and then looked away, only to look back up again when he saw a look on his sister's face, a look which could only signify one thing; Enola Holmes had done something mischievous and was hiding it from him.

"What on earth did you manage to do now, Enola?" He raised his eyebrows at her and she just smiled innocently, fluttering her lashes as she began to pour the tea into two tea cups.

"We might have a _visitor_ today," She finally said and Sherlock just frowned even more.

"And _who_ exactly is this visitor?"

Of course Sherlock had a hunch, and his hunch, unlike his sister, was 100 percent on point, he still wanted to hear it from her lips though.

"Well Sherlock, you do remember saying you will take up on Miss [Y/L/N]'s dead case, yes?" She asked and Sherlock hummed, his expressions not giving away the secret amusement he was feeling.

"Hm, go on then?"

"Well, I sort of invited Miss [Y/N] to come live with me here in London for a while. _I thought.._ I thought a change of scenery will be good for her," she sheepishly added, placing the tea cups on the dining table, one in front of Sherlock and the other on her end of the table, and now she was waiting for a volcano to erupt and her brother to start scolding her on how inappropriate her approach was on this whole thing.

"Is she aware of my presence here?" Sherlock tried to act casual, as he lifted the tea cup up to his lips and took a sip of the piping hot tea, his eyes on his sister who just shrugged.

"She would have decided against it if I had. Oh it's alright, brother. [Y/N] would definitely not have a fit upon seeing you, that I'm sure of," she began chuckling, but her chuckling died down when she heard the sound of a carriage stopping right outside her lodgings, "Sherlock, _please be nice_."

"And when exactly am I not _nice_? **"** Sherlock cried out, exasperated, but Enola was already running out in an unladylike way to receive [Y/N]. Sherlock stood up, his cheeks growing hot suddenly, and he didn't know why he was beginning to feel so flustered. He rolled back his sleeves and walked towards where his coat was. He began wearing it when the door opened, and Enola's giggle reached his ears and he sighed, before his eyes landed on her.

"I hope the journey wasn't too bad, Miss [Y/L/N]."

Sherlock craned his neck towards them, and that's when he saw her looking at him with an almost shocked look on her face, her eyes blown open, and her jaw hanging loose. Sherlock cleared his throat, and glared at Enola.

"Miss [Y/L/N], you look well."

A relief filled him up secretly when he noted her eyes soften, and a small nod of her head. Nodding back courteously at her, ignoring the sudden strumming inside of him; which was like violins playing as he turned towards Enola, "Well, I'll be taking off now. Lestrade would like to see me. Miss [Y/L/N], let me help you with your luggage if I may?" Instead of waiting for her response, Sherlock disappeared, and Enola couldn't help but silently smirk, eyeing Sherlock from the wide window next to them, where he had pulled out her small chest from the back of the carriage and was now walking in. His coat now lay forgotten by the dining table, and [Y/N] couldn't help but watch Sherlock from the corner of her eyes as he casually walked in with her trunk, and just as casually walked up the flight of stairs, until he was gone.

"Come on, Miss [Y/L/N], let's go," Enola pulled her out of her sudden thoughts and when she blinked finally, she saw that Enola was already standing by the base of the staircase, waiting for her.

Sherlock and Enola made sure that [Y/N] felt comfortable in her new bedroom. The bed linen was fresh and smelled earthy and like lavender and as she ran her soft fingers against it, they felt like velvet under her touch. There were flower pots lining the window frame, and scented candles lined the top of the cabinet. The room was tiny as compared to her bedroom back at home, but she felt like home here, much more than it felt back at home.

[Y/N] was unpacking her trunk when she heard Enola downstairs, speaking to Sherlock _, "Would you be back for dinner?"_

_"No. Why would I? I don't want Miss [Y/N] to be uncomfortable, Enola,"_ She heard Sherlock go off, and she bit her lip, her fingers involuntarily toying with the fabric of her dress.

_"I'm sure she would be happy to have you join us."_ The youngest Holmes' voice echoed, followed by opening of the front door until the voices died down altogether.

[Y/N] didn't understand it one bit, what prompted her to run to her window, and fix herself by it as she watched the famous detective walk out, his tall frame having his back towards her. She didn't understand why she ached silently, yearning that he would turn around just once and look up at the window. What was even worse was the fact that she didn't understand it one bit, as to why, when he actually turned around, and his gaze flew upwards, [Y/N] didnt shy away or move herself from the window. Instead, she brought her fisted palm up to the glass of the window, and began moving her hands delicately in her sign language. Sherlock's eyes widened when he saw her movements, and the corner of his lips tugged almost lightly, when he understood what she was trying to tell him. _She was asking him to join them for dinner._

He let himself smile freely, his nose almost crinkling like a little kid, as a breezy breath escaped him. This woman was something else, and he knew it.

He nodded with his eyes, the movement so calculated, but she understood.

She closed her eyes, flinging herself away from that window, as heat flew through her body, as she fixed herself by the wall, her back pressed to it, the back of her head resting against the surface of the wall, her eyes closed. Her heart was racing like a racehorse as she tried to steady her hitched breathing, and she had her palm pressed to her chest, tight, as though her heart would flutter out and latch itself to the floor. [Y/N] realized how _drawn_ she was to Sherlock, and she could do nothing about it.

Sherlock was home for dinner, just like she had asked him to. Now, the three of them sat in a comfortable silence, with [Y/N] holding her book close to her, as she read, and Enola sat on the couch, next to his brother's armchair, and the two of them kept giving each other hinted glances but didn't open their mouths to speak. It was only then, when Sherlock took a deep breath, and cleared his throat that [Y/N] finally pulled her eyes up and fixed them on his, regarding him with a look of utmost curiosity, and a well hidden look of admiration that only she knew about.

"Might I take off my coat, London is a ball of furnace these days—"

Enola broke out into a giggle, that caused Sherlock to turn with a glare towards her and [Y/N] pressed her lips together at the sight of the two of them.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you _played_? I think our friend deserves to hear of your talents," [Y/N] shifted slightly, arching her body forward as she placed her chin in her palms and glanced at Sherlock, squinting her eyes upon listening to Enola.

"Never mind my sister, Miss [Y/N]. She can be a handful at times."

"Oh _come on_ Sherlock, would you stop? All I'm asking is that you show Miss [Y/N] how secretly talented you are," she then turned towards [Y/N] and almost in a whisper like voice, said, _"Sherlock plays the violin."_

"I'm sure she doesn't want to fall asleep, Enola," Sherlock stood up, almost towering over the two of them. The two females regarded each other, with a bit of twinkle in their eyes as they watched the man disappear, only to come out with a violin case. He laid it on the table, his palm resting against the black case, but he didn't do anything further. It was [Y/N] that stood up, much to Sherlock and Enola's surprise as she walked up to where Sherlock was. Reluctantly, she placed her fingers against the case and she opened the case, her fingers skimming delicately over the musical instrument, her eyes lighting up.

His eyes unfazed, he noticed her actions with a warmth filling him up. She pulled out the violin and slowly turned towards Sherlock, throwing out her hand that held the violin, beckoning him to play for them. And play _he did._

Sherlock didn't shy away after that encouragement and the next few minutes, he graced them with some of his most melancholic melodies, and [Y/N] couldn't help herself but feel like she had been swept away. Everything about Sherlock Holmes was what her heart had warned her about. Never trust men. She reminded her silently, but the only problem was, her feelings were much stronger than her mind, and she felt her resolve weakening. _Sherlock was breaking her_ , piece by piece, entering into her heart and occupying a place she never wanted to give any man.

* * *

A week into staying in London, [Y/N] already felt like she was in the best of spirits. Being an early riser, she woke up at dawn, and stared out of the window. It was still fairly dark outside, except for the orange glow that illuminated the sky. It was a perfect time to go out for a walk down the trail that ran at the back of the house.

Dressing up light, [Y/N] stepped out of the back door, having escaped from the house as quiet as a moose for she could hear the sounds of Enola's gentle breathing radiating from her own room, signalling that she was fast asleep. Sherlock had left for Scotland Yard three nights back.

On mornings like these, [Y/N] did miss the countryside, and the vast open space that let her breathe. She felt lucky there was that trail that ran along Enola's lodgings as she trotted down that path, through the wilderness around her. The birds chirped around her, and the morning felt grey and calm, the cool breeze tingling against her supple flesh as she hugged herself closer.

Was she dreaming? She was definitely dreaming. Why otherwise would her eyes see Sherlock right ahead of her, walking towards her with a smile on his radiant face? Of course she was dreaming.

There was _no_ way—

"It's a lovely morning isn't it? I always find myself drawn to this place."

No, he was there. He was _really_ there. The realization sunk in.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, huskily and she shook her head, "Would you like to walk with me?"

The two of them found themselves next to each other once more as he carefully walked next to her, mostly in silence. If not, he made small talks with her, one sided small talks of course, telling her about why he was here, or why he loved morning walks like these. They finally broke out next to a little stream trinkling down, with rocks lined to it.

Sherlock found himself reaching out for her hand as there was a tiny stone bridge that needed to be crossed over the stream in order to go to the other side. What was meant to be a kind gesture on his part, he didn't realize that in a single gesture, his world would come crashing around him. He wanted this woman, he wanted to know and to think what it would be like waking up to her pretty face in the mornings, and what it would be like to hear her laugh. _Her voice_. If only he could hear it one time, he would never wish for anything else in life.

She placed her hand in his, his fingers gently clasping around hers as he helped her cross the bridge until they were on the other side. Finally, the two of them sat down by a broken log of a tree, side by side.

"Can I tell you a secret?" He turned towards her, staring into her eyes, and she nodded, encouraging him to speak.

"I yearn to feel the touch of your hands, like silvery light. I wish you would regard me the way a moth looks at the source of light. Would it be so _wrong_ of me to think of you as often as I do?"

[Y/N]'s eyes fluttered close, and a content smile graced her soft lips. When she opened them again, Sherlock was still staring at her. Without hesitating, she lifted her hand, slowly placing it on his, and his breathing almost hitched, as he let his palm relax under her touch. She clasped her fingers around him daintily, until her hand was sitting perfectly in place in his, and he looked down at their hands, smiling slightly.

"I wish I could hear your voice once, Miss [Y/N]. If only, just _once_."

She kept smiling, as she looked away from him, staring at the sun that was beginning to pave its way up the horizon. She was plagued by her own thoughts and how was she supposed to fight them alone? His hands — soft and warm — how she ached for him to run them along her bare arms — how she ached to feel the electricity surging through her body.

How she ached to tell him what had truly happened to her to make the way she was again.

Was she ready? Was she ready to tell him yet? Was she ready to tell anyone yet? After all, he was too but a man— a man that could make her or break her in a whisk of an eye.

* * *

Waking up had never been difficult for her, but now it felt like a burden. When she slept, she didn't miss him but the minute her eyes fluttered open, the void found its place again inside of her. She had come back from London a week back and what had happened with Sherlock had stayed in London. A day after that impromptu meet by the trail, Sherlock left rather abruptly, only informing Enola that an urgent case had come up, and he had to leave. [Y/N] came back home, back to her estate, with a heavy heart. He hadn't even bothered to tell her goodbye.

Her governess entered her room, and [Y/N] was still laying in bed, staring mindlessly at her window, watching the rustling trees outside.

"You are awake, but still in bed?"

The older woman walked up to the other side of her room as she drew the curtains open and the faint sunlight now seeped through her bedroom, lighting up her sleepy face.

"London did you good child, I see you got colour on your otherwise ashen face. Miss Holmes was anything but kind to you, I hope?"

[Y/N] nodded as she sat up in bed and stretched her arms in the air. She slithered out of bed, and wrapped her robe around her frame as she dragged herself away to get done with her early morning necessities.

It was only when she stepped out, drying her face that she heard a voice downstairs, and her heart skipped a beat.

She was still in her robe as she lifted her skirt and dashed out of the bedroom, her delicate form rushing down the spiral staircase as the voice only got closer.

"My apologies for showing up at this early hour of the day, but I wanted to ask you if I could request an audience with Miss [Y/N]?"

"Mr. Holmes, I would just—" Before the governess could continue speaking, the thudding of [Y/N]'s not so graceful movements across the staircase filled their ears. A gasp escaped her lips as she saw [Y/N]'s condition, her robe hung loosely over her body. She cleared her throat, faintly and eyed her carefully before turning to Sherlock, noting how he was looking at her, the crook of his lips just turned upwards. It wasn't hard for to understand what was going on.

"May I speak to you?" Sherlock immediately began speaking, even before the governess could, and [Y/N] began nibbling nervously against her lower lip as she nodded, running a hand through her hair. She turned, much to Sherlock's confusion, and began walking away. It was then that the governess explained that she wanted him to follow her into the backyard.

Clearing his throat, he eyed the older woman one last time before he disappeared through the hallway he had seen [Y/N] leave through. Through the glass of the window, he could see her sitting on a swing, her back turned towards Sherlock, but her neck craned to her side so she could hear him. He smiled softly to himself, bringing his hand up to his face as he swiped over his chin and took a step into the backyard, watching as her body posture grew rigid.

He cleared his throat, for her attention and she finally turned towards him, staring at him through her long lashes. He, for the first time in life perhaps, the great detective Sherlock Holmes, felt nervous, as he began, "Do _not_ _stop_ me for I have thought about what I am going to say to you for a long time now."

He took a breath before continuing, "Love, my beloved [Y/N], is an other worldly feeling. I think of you when I am trying to solve a murder mystery. I think of you when I lay down in bed and want to fall asleep. I think of you when I wake up in the morning. I _want to spend my life with you_ , my beloved, if you would like to spend yours with me too."

[Y/N] didn't know why she had tears running down her eyes now. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat as she stepped up from the swing and took a step close to him. He looked down at her and reluctantly brought his index finger to her her face, wiping her tears away when she clasped his hand in hers. Sherlock closed his eyes, albeit faintly as [Y/N] took his hand up to her lips and planted her lips against his knuckles. This was her way of telling him that she wanted to marry him too.

As she dropped his hand, he brought both his hands up to her face, cupping her cheeks as he lifted her gaze up to match his, and she couldn't admire his curls, and relish in the fact that she was to be married to this beautiful man.

"I promise you, my beloved. I am going to find out who was behind the murder of your family. I will make sure that they pay for what they have done."

[Y/N] bit her lip, and let out a shaky breath as she placed her hands on his hands and pried them off her face. Finally, she responded, her voice soft, and weak, cracking as words escaped her trembling lips after what felt like ages, "You won't have to, my darling."

"You —" Sherlock almost tripped, losing his balance, and [Y/N] caught his arm, her reflexes kicking in, "Did you just.. I heard your voice, Miss [Y/N].. I —"

"I never implied, Mr. Holmes, that I cannot speak, I only _didn't want_ to."

Her voice was beautiful, clear like the ocean, sharp like an icicle but he couldn't believe his ears. All this while, he thought he would never be able to hear her speak. Now here she was, speaking when she had least expected it.

"What I _saw_ , Mr. Holmes, it made my heart churn, it made me want to perish. I lost all faith in humanity, and it took me years to finally be able to wake up without having those nightmares crawl into my mind, like an infestation **,"** she breathed.

"What did you see?" Sherlock cleared his throat.

"My father. He was the one who murdered my mother. And when the realization sunk in, when he saw what he had done, he shot himself with a musket."

"Which is why you survived, because you ran away," Sherlock mumbled, eyeing her.

"I didn't. I just kept standing there, Mr. Holmes, waiting for him to kill me too. He never did."

"this is .. too much for me to fathom, Miss [Y/N], I —" Sherlock stumbled backwards, his hand now fixed against his hip. He turned to his left, as he began pacing up and down, before her voice flooded through his ears.

"I pray you didn't have to find out this way." She whispered in a low voice, and a breath shot out of Sherlock's lips as he shook his head weakly.

[Y/N] kept watching him as he _walked_ away.


End file.
